Some days are unexpectedly powerful.

The morning begins with a foggy brain that wakes up suddenly from so late in a dream that it’s all a pre-caffeine blur.

It turns from haze to clear-morning vision after some movement and coffee.

My little girl smiles at me when I walk into her room. She’s sitting up in bed.

My husband and I sit and eat breakfast with her in bed and watch cartoons on the laptop. This, right now, is my ideal morning ritual, although I know it will change, as it inevitably does.

I brush my teeth and put on my stretchy yoga pants made out of recycled plastic. They fit my body perfectly, even my six-month pregnant bump.

He’s gone to work and she’s finishing her breakfast.

She takes one last sip of kefir and we brush her teeth.

We put on shoes and she says “bye-bye” to the living room as we walk out the front door holding hands.

Some days are unexpectedly powerful.

I hold her hand tightly as we go down concrete steps through the garage.

We open the car door and she climbs into her car seat.

She smiles at me and, in that second, everything is perfect.

In that instant, my whole world is sitting evenly and there’s nothing else that needs to be done; no requirements that must be met; no duties left unfulfilled.

I smile back and tell her she’s beautiful.

I climb into the front seat, which is getting slightly harder with my expanding belly.

I adjust the seat from our drive the night before, when my husband was behind the wheel. I press the clutch pedal with my left foot and the break with my right and start the car.

The radio comes on blaring a song from my high school years. My daughter sings along in the backseat.

My heart is happy. My heart is light.

I back out into the misting rain. I don’t live in Seattle, have never been there, but I envision that this is what it must be like.

I shift into first gear and head down the winding driveway. I pause at the bottom to look for cars, but I end up pausing and simply taking in this moment of my life.

This dawning day when my daughter is smiling and singing and joyful, when my body is full with another growing child to love and cherish and care for, and my life is not perfect but it’s perfect in this now moment.

I inhale into a new now moment.

I exhale into this now new moment.

I remember to pause like this and check in with my breath when my patience grows short later on in the afternoon.

I remind myself to inhale this presence when my body is still gloriously round and expectant, but also tired and weary.

I consider that my life is often this perfect, even when it seems differently—I only have to pause and look inside.

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Editor: Renée Picard

Photo credit: Flickr; Author’s own.